Page 9 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)
His mouth captures mine in a kiss that detonates behind my ribs—hot, commanding, fierce enough to chase every ounce of strategy from my head.
I taste vodka on his tongue, feel the rough scrape of stubble against my skin, and the world narrows to the press of his hand at my waist and the relentless slide of his lips over mine.
My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, because distance suddenly feels unendurable.
His mouth never leaves mine as he backs me, step by relentless step, across the small span of floor. The backs of my knees bump the mattress, and before I can draw another breath he eases me down, the weight of his body settling over me.
The kiss deepens, hotter than sin, all velvety heat and scraped-silk sighs, his tongue stroking a slow, devastating rhythm that sets every nerve alight.
My fingers slide beneath his shirt, mapping the hard planes of muscle and the sharp line of his spine; he answers by dragging his palm up my rib cage, caressing the curve of my breast through the thin cotton.
When he finally pushes the fabric aside and closes his mouth over me—warm, wet, and hungry—I arch into him on a broken gasp, the world narrowing to the shock-bright pleasure of his tongue circling, tasting, claiming.
He sucks gently, then harder, and a helpless sound spills from my lips, half plea, half challenge.
Bishop growls—a feral, low rumble that vibrates against my skin—and the sound only fuels the urgency coiling between us.
Every nip of his teeth, every sweep of his tongue, every hot exhale against sensitive flesh, turns the air molten, until thought disintegrates and need takes the throne.
I clutch his shoulders, nails biting just enough to make him hiss and press closer, devouring every broken breath I offer, as if he’s determined to drink every last ounce of control I have left.
His mouth drags lower, teeth scraping softly along the curve of my breast, leaving a hot trail of kisses and bites down my rib cage until I’m writhing beneath him, fingers tangled helplessly in his hair.
Every nerve in my body is tuned to him now, waiting breathlessly for the next shock of sensation, the next teasing touch that feels like fire under my skin.
Bishop’s hands find the waistband of my panties, fingers hooking beneath the fabric, pausing only long enough to look up at me, eyes dark and burning with a question he already knows the answer to.
“Take them off,” I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice, roughened by desperation and need.
He doesn’t hesitate, peeling the skirt down my hips slowly, deliberately, tormenting me with every slow inch of skin he reveals.
I shiver as the cool air hits my bare legs, but then he’s moving again, sliding his palm gently—so unbearably gently—up my inner thigh, until his fingers brush the damp lace between my legs.
I gasp sharply, hips lifting instinctively to meet his touch.
“Fuck,” he breathes roughly against my neck, teeth scraping the tender flesh beneath my ear. “You’re so wet already, Katya.”
I shudder beneath him, heat blooming across my cheeks and chest. I open my mouth to retort, to maintain some semblance of control, but his fingertips circle lightly, teasing me through the delicate fabric of my underwear, and my words dissolve into a helpless moan instead.
“God, I knew you’d sound like that,” he murmurs darkly, fingers slipping beneath the lace now, pressing directly against the slick folds of my sex. “I imagined what you’d feel like. How tight, how perfect.”
“Bishop—” I choke out, the single word broken, pleading.
He eases two fingers inside me, slow and deliberate, filling me until my back arches off the bed in pure desperation. His thumb circles gently over my clit, igniting every nerve ending, making me tremble, making me beg.
“You like that?” His voice is velvet-smooth, dark and filthy, brushing hot against my skin. “You like feeling me inside you? You like knowing you’re gonna come all over my hand, Katya?”
“Yes,” I gasp helplessly, hips rocking against him, urging him deeper, harder. My own voice is foreign, raw, entirely abandoned to pleasure. “Please—please, I need?—”
He thrusts his fingers deeper, harder, pressing against that perfect spot inside me until stars explode behind my eyes.
His thumb never stops its tight circles around my clit, relentless, ruthless.
Pleasure coils tighter, harder, until I can barely breathe, until my heart feels like it might burst out of my chest.
“Come for me,” Bishop growls in my ear, voice ragged with lust, possessive and demanding. “Come all over my fucking fingers. Let me feel how good it is.”
His words undo me entirely. I cry out sharply as pleasure detonates inside me, clenching around his fingers in relentless waves of ecstasy. I come hard, body shaking uncontrollably, thighs trembling, every muscle drawn tight as I ride out the shattering release he’s pulled from my body.
He holds me through it, his breath harsh and uneven against my neck, murmuring filthy, soothing words into my skin as the world slowly comes back into focus.
“Good girl,” he whispers softly, pressing gentle kisses along my jawline, my throat, my lips. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”
His mouth is still on my skin, soft kisses trailing up my neck, slow and reverent now, like he’s trying to memorize every part of me with his mouth.
My pulse hasn’t settled. I’m still trembling, wrapped in aftershocks and his breath, still pinned beneath him, still so incredibly aware of the heavy length of him pressing hard against my belly.
God, he’s hard. Completely.
I shift slightly, and he lets out a low, ragged sound against my throat.
One of his hands moves again, sliding down between us, fingers teasing just beneath the edge of my underwear like he’s already thinking about how to undo me again.
His lips graze mine—barely a brush—and I feel the moment stretching, the want deepening, reckless and alive and?—
“BISHOP!” Reaper’s voice crashes through the house like a gunshot. “Where the hell are you?”
We both freeze.
Bishop closes his eyes for a beat, jaw tightening. The heat between us crackles, broken, fractured—but not gone.
He pulls back, breath still heavy, gaze dragging slowly down my body like he doesn’t want to leave it. Then he stands, smooth and controlled, but I see the tension in his shoulders.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone in his room, half-naked, skin still tingling from his touch, my underwear damp, my mind spinning out like it’s no longer attached to reality.
What the hell am I doing?